you are all the colors in one (at full brightness)
by thespacenico
Summary: Lance falls in love with Keith during their time at the Garrison.


* . · ✵ ✷

. . .

✵ ✧

. * .

 _White_ is the color of the envelope in his hands, containing within it a single phrase that is powerful enough to change the course of his entire future. His entire life.

One might even say, his destiny.

Eyes widen and feet shuffle in quiet anticipation as he unfolds the enclosed sheet of paper with trembling hands. The entire room holds its breath.

(The universe holds its breath.)

He is six years old when he really, fully sees the stars for the first time.

The sky is utterly dark, and yet utterly light. They fill the open space, and the open ocean; collections of constellations reflected in perfect clarity across the rippling water.

There is no division between sea and sky.

 _The world is yours, mijo,_ Papá tells him. _It is waiting for you._

Lance looks into the endless sky, and sees fire.

He looks into the cold water washing around his ankles, and sees the stars in his eyes.

For his next birthday, all he asks for is a telescope.

Instead, he gets plastic glow-in-the-dark stars, a picture book of the planets in Earth's solar system, and a makeshift astronaut helmet. It's still the best birthday he's ever had.

There's no need for a telescope when he can see the entire universe from his bedroom.

 _I wanna be just like him someday,_ he says to his sister one afternoon after school, pointing up at the poster tacked onto his bedroom wall. _I wanna be just like Takashi._

She kisses his forehead. _You, hermanito, can be anything you want to be._

 _Lance McClain,_

 _After careful consideration, it is with pleasure that we offer you a position in the upcoming class of future space explorers._

 _Welcome to the Galaxy Garrison._

The world is his. It is waiting for him.

 _Go,_ Abuelita says. _Follow your dreams._

He goes. He follows.

(Everyone tells him to chase his dreams. No one tells him what to do when he catches one.)

✧ · . ⊹

* *

· ⋆ * ˚ ✫ ⊹

✵ . ⊹

 _Red_ is the color of the dark liquid dripping from the dark-haired boy's nose, the result of a well-aimed blow from another cadet.

The other boy ended up with more than just a bloody nose.

It drips onto the glaringly spotless tile and stains the sleeve of Lance's freshly-pressed uniform when he tries to wipe it away. The boy only looks at him as he does, face placid and reticent.

He'd already wiped the tears away from Lance's cheeks.

An act of unexpected kindness, however extreme.

The Garrison is strict, harsh, demanding. It's nothing like home. Lance longs for the warmth of the afternoon sun's kiss, aches for the feeling of soft sand between his toes, yearns for the soothing touch of his sister's fingers brushing through his hair. He misses the tacit sense of belonging, of having a place at the table. He's not sure he has a place here.

It keeps him awake at night, wishing for comfort beyond his reach.

The world is his. The world is unforgiving.

(The world is his—or is he the world's?)

The tears come unexpectedly, though unsurprisingly. Poor marks on a primary flight exam, despite hours of study, hours of practice, countless late nights and early mornings. To study is also to distract himself from the heartache of missing home. It's not enough. Paper crinkles in a tiny fist. (He's not enough.)

Someone in the hallway asks why he's crying. The inquirer is uncaring, voice cold and scathing. It's foreign and unfamiliar, fueling the existing soreness of what he no longer has.

"Don't be such a baby, McClain."

 _Tears are nothing to be ashamed of, mijo. They remind us that we are whole. One who does not feel sorrow, can not know joy._

 _(One who does not feel empty, can not know what it means to be filled.)_

He clenches his hands and bites his tongue. He wears his heart on his sleeve, raw, exposed, and bleeding. Home, it makes him strong. Here, it makes him weak.

"You'll never make it to space if you can't even handle the Garrison."

There is a new voice, foreign and unfamiliar, although in a different sense entirely. Instead of cruel and merciless, it's quiet and steady. "Leave him alone."

The boy it belongs to stands in front of Lance, like a shield meant to protect him from unkind words and ugly criticisms.

"I'm just stating the facts."

A small crowd has formed around them, apprehensive eyes waiting for the scene to unfold. Lance is surrounded by strangers. (His eyes watch only one.)

Again, louder this time, more forceful: "Leave him alone."

"Or what? Is he gonna go crying home to Mommy—"

The boy _punches_ him.

(Lance asks him, later, why he did that for him. His question is met with silence.

It's the kind of silence that understands.)

Looking back, he doesn't think he ever really had a chance.

˚

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˚ · . ·

* . . * ⊹

 _Orange_ is the color of a post-it note with a hastily scrawled _thank you_ that Lance thrusts into the boys' hands the next week (and, the color of the Band-Aid taped carefully across his nose).

The boy blinks as he receives it, face unreadable. His eyes follow Lance all the way back to his seat in the front of the classroom.

The back of his head burns throughout the bulk of the lesson. He pretends it's from the sunlight shining into the room behind him, instead of the inquisitive gaze of a boy whose name he doesn't even know.

Class ends; he gathers his things and scurries out of the room without looking back.

Later, he sees the boy again in passing.

The hallway is filled with curious whispers and open stares. It's hard not to notice someone speaking on such familiar terms with Takashi Shirogane, the most skilled exploration pilot of his generation. Lance notices. He notices, and he stares.

But in truth, his attention is drawn mostly by the orange post-it note still clutched in the boy's hand.

There is a post-it note with a neatly written _you're welcome_ alreadystuck to Lance's desk when he goes to class the next morning.

Eyes meet; the boy only nods slightly, acknowledging, before he turns and lets his hair fall into his face.

Lance still doesn't know his name.

They sit in opposite corners of the room; they are the farthest away from each other than any of the other students. Lance looks at the note, and he feels closer.

Sometimes, he catches glimpses of dark hair and scraped knuckles in the hallways. Now, he knows to look for them.

Now, it's familiar. He is less of a stranger, and more of a curiosity.

Sometimes, he catches glimpses of distant eyes and vacant expressions in the classroom each day, when he arrives, and when he departs.

He is so close, and yet just out of reach.

Sometimes, he catches glimpses of scrunched eyebrows and clenched fists, when no one else seems to be looking.

(Lance is looking. He's always looking.)

And sometimes, he sees all of him at once.

Sometimes, he sees him sitting in the commissary. He's never by himself—he sits in the same spot, at the same table, with the same people. He sits, and eats whatever's been shoveled onto his tray, and stares out the floor-to-ceiling window on the far side of the room. He doesn't speak; only looks. (Lance looks, and looks.)

He's surrounded by smiling faces, bright eyes, excited chatter.

Lance thinks he looks lonely.

He understands.

Lance has never seen him smile.

At dinner, a tray of food clatters onto the table's surface before him.

Lance watches, face incredulous, as the boy sits down in front of him.

"You looked lonely," he says, and takes a bite of his sandwich.

Later, Lance wishes that he had asked his name.

So at breakfast, his tray of food clatters onto the table's surface before him.

The boy watches, face expressionless, as Lance sits down in front of him. (No one else even blinks.)

"Hi," he says, and takes a sip of his orange juice.

The boy looks at him, and he smiles.

(His name is Keith.)

* . · ✵ ✷

. . .

✵ ✧

. * .

 _Yellow_ is the color of the _DO NOT ENTER_ sign on the door leading to the roof of the Garrison.

They're fifteen years old, restless, trigger-happy and hungry for adventure.

To Keith, the sign seems more like an invitation than a warning.

"What if we get caught?" Lance asks nervously.

Keith's mouth turns up, his eyes glint in the darkness of the hallway and he is the perfect picture of trouble. "We won't. No one ever goes up here. Shiro told me so."

(Looking back, he realizes he never really had a chance at all.)

One night, turns into two, turns into five.

They dangle their legs over the ledge and press their backs into the cold concrete and stare up at the sky. Lance shows Keith his favorite constellations; Keith learns each of them by name.

The sky is their safe place, and the stars are their comfort.

Together.

Days, turn into weeks, turn into months.

They talk about home.

"What's your family like?" Lance asks one night, ignoring the mess of midterm papers spread out in his lap.

Keith's response is automatic. "I don't have one."

"Everyone has a family."

"Not me."

Lance taps his pencil on his knee. "You have Shiro."

Keith shrugs. "He has Adam."

 _"You_ have Adam."

Keith shrugs again.

Lance frowns. He sets his pencil down. "You have me."

The intensity of Keith's gaze rivals that of the sky that swallows them whole. Lance is drowning in it.

"Yeah," Keith says eventually. "I have you."

✧ · . ⊹

* *

· ⋆ * ˚ ✫ ⊹

✵ . ⊹

 _Green_ is the color of the highlighter that Adam has to confiscate from Keith during his lecture because he can't seem to stop tapping it against his desk.

Keith just rolls his eyes, and ignores the exasperated look he gets when he starts to drum his fingers loudly against the wooden surface in retaliation.

Lance follows Keith to the front of the room when class ends and watches as Keith expectantly extends his hand.

Adam looks at his outstretched palm, unimpressed. "I assume you'd like your highlighter back."

"You assume correctly," Keith confirms.

"This is the third time this week, Keith."

"My arm's getting tired."

 _"I'm_ getting tired."

"Old man."

Adam sighs.

"I'll just use another one tomorrow," Keith threatens.

"Then I'll just take that one, too," Adam rolls his eyes.

Keith pouts. "But Shiro gave me those highlighters."

Adam squints, studies him for another moment, and then begrudgingly drops the highlighter into Keith's open hand. "That's cheating," he mutters.

Keith just smiles innocently.

"I don't know how you do it," Adam says to Lance.

Lance shrugs. "Shiro gives good advice."

Adam smirks. "Patience yields—"

"I hate you both," Keith says, turning on his heel and marching out of the classroom.

Lance laughs, calls goodbye to Adam, and follows.

 _Don't follow in his footsteps._

Too late.

He's been following that boy since day one.

(He never had a chance.)

˚

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˚ · . ·

* . . * ⊹

 _Blue_ is the color of the bruises decorating Keith's knuckles, the mark kissing his cheekbone, the angry tears rolling down his face because _he's gone—_

 _Shiro's gone. He's gone, and they aren't even doing anything about it._

They're saying it was pilot error. The entire crew is missing. Presumed dead.

Shiro is dead.

"He's not." Keith digs his fingers into his scalp until Lance is sure he'll bleed. "He's not dead. He told me he'd come back. He _promised."_

Lance wasn't there, but he hears the stories.

 _Yeah, I heard that Kogane kid totally lost it._

 _Isn't he like, at the very top of the fighter class?_

 _Just totally socked Iverson right in the face._

 _That kid has no self-control. He'll be gone before you know it._

 _He's probably already been expelled._

Lance finds him on the roof, with bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

 _"Pilot error,"_ Keith spits, digging his nails into his palms until he _does_ bleed."Liars. They're all _liars—"_

"Keith," Lance tries.

"They aren't even trying to find them. They aren't even trying to find Shiro, they aren't even—" He rakes his fingers through his hair, clenches his teeth, locks his jaw. "He has to come back. He said he'd come back—"

Lance lays a hand on Keith's arm, and he rips it away. "Keith—"

 _"You promised!"_ Keith screams at the sky.

"Keith," Lance grabs his hands and struggles against Keith's thrashing, forces him to go still, to look him in the eye. "Keith, you have to calm down."

"He said he'd come back—" Keith tries to push him away. Lance holds fast. "He _promised—"_

Lance wants to say it's okay. He can't. Because it's not.

Keith tries to resist as Lance pulls him closer, brings his head to his shoulder, wraps an arm firmly around his waist.

The sky is supposed to be their safe place.

Then Keith finally gives in, clinging to the front of Lance's uniform like a lifeline.

"He promised," he whispers, shoulders shaking, breath stuttering.

Lance closes his eyes.

The stars are supposed to be their comfort.

Lance holds tight, and hopes that he's enough.

(Lance wants the bruises to go away. He wants them to go away, to disappear. He wants them to _go away,_ because they could be what takes Keith away.)

Turns out, it doesn't matter what Lance wants.

Because he leaves anyway.

* . · ✵ ✷

. . .

✵ ✧

. * .

 _Violet_ is the color of Keith's eyes when he kisses Lance for the first, and maybe last, time.

It's everything that a first kiss isn't supposed to be.

Because a kiss is supposed to be a promise.

It's not supposed to be an apology.

He should've known.

The first sign: Keith tells Lance to meet him on the roof.

They're supposed to go together.

Lance climbs the steps in the dark and braces himself against the cool night air, where Keith is already waiting for him.

The second sign: Keith won't (can't) take his eyes off Lance.

Almost as if he's only really seeing him for the first time. As if he's trying to memorize him. As if he knows this is the last time they'll see each other in a long, long time.

Lance doesn't know.

The third, and final, sign: Keith lays a hand over Lance's, laces his fingers through his hair, and kisses him.

It takes Lance's breath away long enough that he doesn't recognize it for what it really is, or what it really means.

He thought, maybe, he was enough.

(Maybe, he wasn't.)

A kiss is supposed to be a beginning.

It's not supposed to be a goodbye.

✧ · . ⊹

* *

· ⋆ * ˚ ✫ ⊹

✵ . ⊹

 _Black._

Lance has never felt a color before.

It's the sky, the starless void left in the wake of an empty heart, filled only with crushed dreams, useless apologies, and broken promises.

It's the empty desk in the back of the classroom, the empty seat beside him in the commissary, the empty roof where he goes to wonder what he did wrong.

Because he left, without so much as a goodbye.

Only, he did say goodbye. Lance just didn't see it. Maybe, he didn't want to.

(Everyone tells him to chase his dreams. No one tells him what to do when he catches one, and it slips through his fingers like it was never meant to exist.)

"How are you holding up?" Adam asks softly, before Lance can slip away after class.

He looks tired, and drained, and everything that Lance is, but doesn't know he has the right to feel.

Adam lost what was going to be. Lance only lost what might have been.

He bites the inside of his cheek. "Fine," he lies, even though he's grown familiar with the bitter taste it leaves in his mouth.

Adam takes his glasses off with a sigh, and rubs his eyes. "We'll find him."

Adam is a horrible liar.

Then again, so is Lance.

˚

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˚ · . ·

 _White_ is the color of the glaring chrome walls all around him when he finds Shiro.

Alive.

His clothes are tattered, he's got a metal arm, and there's a shock of white hair that falls into his closed eyes.

But he's alive.

And red.

 _Red,_ is the color of the jacket on the dark-haired boy with Shiro's arm slung heavily over his shoulders.

The same boy, who would become the red paladin.

The same boy, who would pilot the Red Lion.

The same boy, who took Lance's bleeding heart and made it his own, all those years ago.

Full circle.

 _Red,_ is the color that makes Lance fall in love all over again.

* . · ✵ ✷

. . .

✵ ✧

. * .


End file.
